Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 21

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“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know we were doing costumes,” I say with a nervous laugh when I see Michael waiting for me in the tearoom. He is dressed in high-waisted breeches, a high-collared shirt, and a single-breasted green tailcoat. He stands, and bows, and then pulls out a chair for me.

“No, no, not compulsory,” Michael says, flicking his tails as he sits back down. “I’ve just finished my shift. I usually play Bingley, but today I am Edward Ferrars, at your service.”

The Jane Austen Centre is a quaint little museum dedicated to Jane Austen’s life and how she came to live here in Bath. It boasts a wonderful gift shop, a Regency tearoom, and actors roaming the halls dressed as characters from her novels.

“You work here as a guide, as well as delivering parcels?” I ask in surprise.

“Two afternoons and every other Saturday. Austen is my life.” His face lights up. “You’ve read her, I presume?”

“Some,” I admit. “I think I read Emma and Mansfield Park in school. I’ve watched the Pride and Prejudice TV adaptation and Emma Thompson’s Sense and Sensibility —I loved that one.”

Michael’s face goes pale, and his mouth falls open in horror. “That is not the same, not the same at all. An adaptation is but a shadow of the original text,” he says, his tufty eyebrows sinking into a frown. “The books offer such a keen insight into human nature. Austen’s turns of phrase are exquisite.” Michael fiddles with a cufflink, clearly bothered. “Just think what we might have had from dear Jane if she hadn’t died so young. Sanditon , of course, but what else might she have gifted us with?” Michael lets out a low sigh.

“Which is your favorite novel?” I ask, suppressing a smile.

“Oh, P and P , undoubtedly, though I know that makes me predictable. Some claim that Persuasion has more depth, that she was a more experienced writer when she penned it, but I don’t think you can top the characterization in P and P . I have read it thirty-eight times.”

“You’re kidding me,” I say, letting a laugh slip out.

“I never jest when it comes to Jane,” Michael says, sitting up a little straighter and adjusting the fold of his high collar.

Our tea arrives, and I find myself intrigued by Michael. I’ve never met anyone like him. He tells me he read Mansfield Park at school and that Fanny Price was his first literary crush. I confess mine was Jo March from Little Women , then we have an animated discussion about which fictional characters we’d like to invite to dinner. Michael doesn’t ask me anything about my job, my family, or my divorce, he only wants to talk about Austen and books. It makes a refreshing change.

Once we’ve finished our tea, he takes me on a tour of the museum and launches into a lengthy explanation of the Austen family tree. Watching him talk, my mind begins to drift. What kind of woman might be attracted to Michael? He’s not unattractive, he’s passionate and well-read, but for me, there’s no spark. What is it that creates that chemistry, that attraction to another human being? Meeting Dan so young, I took it for granted that if it hadn’t been him, I would have met someone else. But maybe the perfect confluence of factors that makes for a good relationship is a rarity. To have real chemistry, to be at the same stage of life, to want enough of the same things and be compatible companions—maybe that doesn’t come along very often.

My mind darts to Will. He has stopped flirting with me at work. We’re not even playing the chair game anymore, he’s let me keep the ergonomic monstrosity all week. When we cross paths in the office, he’s professional and courteous, but that’s all. He’s also been out of the office more than usual. On Wednesday, he took a day’s holiday. Who takes a day’s holiday midweek? He’s also started calling me Anna rather than Appleby, which feels significant. Honestly, I’m relieved. It makes my life simpler. I can get on with my work without being distracted or nervous about the retreat next weekend. I don’t have space in my life for a confusing and time-consuming workplace flirtation.

“Let me show you my favorite room,” Michael says, pulling me back to the present. He opens a door with a sign saying “Staff only.” “The costume cupboard. Do you want to play dress-up?”

I do not want to play dress-up, but when I say as much, Michael looks so disappointed that I am forced to relent. The room has rails full of Regency outfits, and I let Michael pick out a blue Empire-line gown with a matching bonnet that he deems suitable.

“You look sensational,” he says, kissing the tips of his fingers, then throwing me the kiss through the air. “Shall we take a turn around the Royal Crescent?” he asks, then whispers, “They let me borrow these, just for a short outing.”

“In public?” I ask, horrified. “Won’t people stare?” He looks wounded by this, and I hear myself saying, “Maybe just a short walk. Then I really must get back.”

The Royal Crescent is arguably Bath’s most famous street. An impressive feat of Georgian architecture, a sweeping crescent of historical terraced houses, overlooking Royal Victoria Park. It’s not far from the Circus, where Will lives, and I briefly imagine what it must have been like to grow up in a house steeped in so much history. Even when you’re not dressed the part, it’s hard to walk along this street without feeling as though you’re starring in your very own period drama. Michael takes my arm in his, and we amble along the garden side of the crescent. The sun is warm on our faces, and Victoria Park is abloom with yellow tulips. To my surprise, I think I might be enjoying myself.

“Being a Janeite is more than a hobby,” Michael tells me. “Some women find this level of commitment challenging.” He lifts his hat to greet an elderly man walking toward us, who smiles in bemusement, as though we are lost circus performers.

“My ex Gail was supportive, well versed in the literature. But she also refused to commit to the ball,” he tells me. “I’m on the organizing committee, it’s important to me, but she booked a trip to Rome the same weekend.”

I don’t need to ask which ball he’s referring to. Each summer, Regency enthusiasts throw a formal, Austen-inspired ball. People travel from all over the world to attend and it’s the focal point of Bath’s summer calendar. “She also insisted I meet her parents in ‘normal clothes.’ That’s not who I am, Anna. This is normal to me.” Michael turns to face me, looking for understanding.

“I’m sorry Gail disappointed you,” I say, hugging his arm a little tighter in mine.

Michael squeezes my arm right back. “Do you know what Austen prescribes as the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love?”

“Wine?” I suggest.

“Friendship,” he says. “And I hope you won’t mind me saying that whilst I don’t see a romantic storyline developing between us, given you have only read two of Jane’s novels, I hope that we may become friends?”

“I would like that very much,” I say.

As we walk arm in arm, ahead of us one of the doors opens, and a man and a woman step out onto the street. They look familiar, and as we get closer, I realize, with a rising sense of dread, the man is Will. Oh no, oh God, he’s going to see me dolled up like a Regency clown. Then I notice the woman he’s with, and she is familiar too: she’s wearing a bright red top with purple dungarees and has a Liberty-print silk scarf around her head—oh God, it’s Loretta, from the theater.

“Anna?” Will says in surprise, looking me over from my bonnet to my feet to fully absorb my ridiculous outfit.

“Will, hi. Um, this is Michael,” I say, feeling flustered. Will looks delighted by my lack of composure, then his face starts to look pained, as though it is taking him a huge amount of effort not to burst out laughing. Michael raises his hat in greeting to them both.

“You look very sweet,” Will says, regarding me strangely, as though I have sprouted wings. Loretta looks at me, confused. She can’t place me. Please don’t let her be able to place me.

“We’re on an Austen-inspired date, hence the getup,” I explain, feeling my palms begin to sweat.

“Of course you are. This is a friend of mine, Loretta Fields,” Will says. “We’re on a fundraising committee together, for a charity choir.” Then it happens. Her face shifts into the most enormous smile as she works out where she knows me from.

“Anna, of course! My, my, is that a wig?” She reaches out to stroke my hair. “It looks fabulous— you look fabulous.”

“Lovely to see you again,” I say, desperately thinking of a way to get out of this conversation without appearing rude. “I would love to stay and chat, but we, um, we have to get these costumes back by six—”

“There’s no rush to return them,” Michael says, oblivious.

“How do you know Will?” Loretta asks me.

“We work together,” I explain.

“Anna makes my life a living hell,” Will says with a smile, and the glint in his eye, which has been gone all week, is back.

“Well, I hope you aren’t working this dear girl too hard. It’s important to ease back into work gently. You mustn’t overdo it when your body is recovering,” Loretta says, reaching out to squeeze my hand. Now Will and Michael are both looking back and forth between us in confusion.

“Um, yes, I think there was a small misunderstanding the last time we met,” I start to explain, feeling my face burn. “I’m not ill. I’m not in recovery either. Crossed wires.” I hope this will be enough of an explanation, but everyone is still looking at me, so I fear it may not. “I met Loretta at the theater. I was wearing a headscarf as a precaution, against, um, nits, though it turns out I didn’t have them. Loretta assumed…I should have said straightaway, but I was embarrassed, and you were being so nice. I’m so sorry.” This might be the worst conversation I’ve ever been a part of. Will and Loretta exchange looks, and my heart pounds with mortification; my borrowed finery now feels like a straitjacket.

“You’re not in recovery?” Lorretta asks, confused.

“No, and this isn’t a wig, it’s my real hair.”

After a long pause, Loretta starts laughing, and now I can’t help laughing too.

“Oh dear, how foolish of me to assume.”

“Not at all, it was entirely my fault,” I tell her.

“Now you must call me for a gin sometime. We can laugh about this some more,” Loretta says. “No excuses.”

“No excuses,” I say, relieved to have the misunderstanding cleared up.

As we say our good-byes, Will looks at me strangely again, then blushes, as though I am walking the streets in lingerie or something equally exposing. I cringe as Michael and I continue our walk along the crescent. Michael gives my arm a comforting squeeze. “You know, I’d wager courting in Austen’s day was easier,” he says. “Perhaps we have too much choice now, we expect too much.”

“I don’t agree. I think it’s easy to romanticize the past,” I say. “But beneath all the beautiful dresses and the formality, marriage was an exchange of property between two men. We wouldn’t want to go back to that.”

“That is true,” says Michael.

Looking up at these stately houses, I wonder how many marriages have played out behind these doors. How many great love stories, how many miserable ones, how many women powerless to leave unhappy marriages. I realize how much I take for granted . I am free to divorce, to date, to earn my own living, to be alone if I want to be, to choose my own happiness. How many women— people —throughout history have not had that, still do not have that?

“Maybe I don’t want to go back in time then,” Michael says. “All I want is a woman who appreciates Jane as I do, who’s open to a little role play here and there.” His cheeks flush. “Who won’t be ashamed to go out with me dressed like this. Who will come to the ball having learned the appropriate steps for the cotillion. Is all that really too much to ask?”

“Have you ever tried internet dating, Michael?” I ask him.

“No.” Michael makes a face. “I don’t think it would be for me.”

I explain that while I too had my reservations about finding love online, if he is looking for something quite specific, then the internet might be the perfect place to look. Online, every Janeite cosplay aficionada within a twenty-mile radius would be at his fingertips. “Let me set you up a profile?” I plead, excited about the prospect of focusing on someone else’s love life for a change. “Let me find you a date for the Regency ball!”

“This all feels rather Emma Woodhouseish,” he says with a hint of a smile. “But okay, I would love you to help me find an appropriate date for the ball.”

“Yes!” I clap my hands, inexplicably excited about my new role as Michael’s personal Emma.

“On one condition,” Michael adds. “You read Pride and Prejudice , the book, properly, cover to cover. I don’t think we can be friends otherwise.”

“Fine. It’s a deal,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand.

After we get back to the Jane Austen Centre and change back into our normal clothes, I bid Michael a fond good-bye . Then on my walk home, I call Loretta and leave a message on her answerphone, asking when she might be free to meet me for a coffee. Or perhaps a gin.